


singularities and multitudes

by screechfox



Series: a sharp-set symmetry [3]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arguably Bloodplay, Canon-Typical Violence, Dirty Talk — if by that you mean Threats, Do Not Archive (The Magnus Archives), Established Relationship, F/M, Kink Negotiation - maybe, Kissing, Mild Altered Mental States, Season/Series 04, Yet More Mutual Masochism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-22
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2020-09-24 02:27:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20350849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/screechfox/pseuds/screechfox
Summary: It’s become a habit by now.Jon and Helen discuss their relationship and negotiate some boundaries — for a given definition of the wordsrelationship, negotiate,andboundaries.





	singularities and multitudes

**Author's Note:**

> i swear i spent more time trying to title and summarise this fic than i did writing it. jon and helen are just like that

It’s become a habit by now. Helen is perched on Jon’s lap, legs folded askew at sharp, strange angles. If he shut his eyes — not that he plans to — he would barely be able to feel the airy weightlessness of her body pressed to his.

She leans in closer until the curls of her hair twist and writhe against his shoulders.

“Why don’t you ever touch me, Archivist?”

“I kiss you,” Jon points out in even tones.

“Oh, I know.” Helen’s grin turns downright lascivious. “But you never _ do _ anything. You just _ watch _ while I’m the one doing all the hard work.”

“I think you have a substantial advantage in that area.” Jon reaches for the needlepoints of her hands, and Helen darts out of reach — quite a feat, given she’s still sitting on his lap. Her eyes glitter with mischief and… something deeper. Something far more intimate that makes Jon’s breath, such as it is, stop in his throat.

“You have no idea what your touch does to me, do you?”

“I…” Jon could try and peer into the depths of her being for an answer, but he already did that once today, and he has a feeling he’ll get a migraine if he tries again. “No, I don’t,” he admits at last, a reluctant exhale.

He expects Helen to laugh, but she doesn’t. She doesn’t even smile. All her sharp edges have gone unaccountably soft, and she presses a hand to his cheek with terrible human warmth.

“You make me singular.”

Jon can’t think of anything to say to that. Her hand drops to his chest, to the skin above his heart, and the reassuring weight of her touch is alien in its normality.

“When you touch me, I am myself. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“I…”

Helen takes pity on his wordlessness, her mouth curling into a smile like rose-thorns and her fingers sharpening to match. Damn, there goes this shirt.

“What does my touch do to you, Archivist?”

“Hurts, mostly,” Jon mutters, well aware that he’s being contrary. He runs a finger across one of the freshly crimson lines on his skin, wincing at the bright spark of pain. Helen covers his hand with hers and presses down until the pain is a stinging kaleidoscope whirling through his veins.

“An answer for an answer,” she chides, tilting his chin upwards with her free hand. Her fingers dig into his jaw, not sharp enough to bleed but heavy enough to bruise.

It takes Jon long moments to gather his words, longer still as Helen leans in and kisses him, knife-lipped. The room starts spinning carousel-quick, and Jon is adrift in all the impossibly sensation he feels — all the impossible sensation he could _ understand _ if only he tried.

He breaks away, forcing the office into steadiness around them with a sidelong glance.

“You could kill me,” Jon starts, huffing in amused annoyance as Helen rolls her eyes — _ yes, _ they both know that well enough by now. “You could drive me mad,” he continues, wondering how easy it would be for her to do it.

“As much as I enjoy your rambling, Archivist, could you get to the point? I don’t have all day.” In emphasis, Helen begins to press gentle lines of bloody pain into the side of his throat.

“You enjoy—” Jon cuts himself off with a high sound as she cuts into his collarbone, her expression placid and unchanging. “I— I think there’s a lot _ worse _ you could do to me, that’s all.”

“Oh?” Helen leans in close again, until all Jon can see is the swirling hunger in her eyes, eager and unrelenting — mirrored in his own, he’s sure, but he refuses to indulge himself anymore than he already has today.

“You could, ah, make me multiple, I suppose.” Jon huffs a laugh at his own bad joke. “I mean, I don’t _ know _ what you could do to me, that’s the whole _ point, _ but— You could definitely _ change _ me, if you wanted to, and it’s… terrifying.”

“Do you want me to?” Helen asks, because they both know terror doesn’t preclude desire.

“You know the answer to that as well as I do, I think.”

“You mean to say, not at all?”

Jon laughs wryly, watching the way the corners of her eyes wrinkle with an answering amusement and her lips curve indulgently.

“Exactly.”

“Hm.” Helen considers him, her image blurring like he’s seeing her from very far away. Jon watches, but he doesn’t stare — he wants her to be unpredictable to him, at least in this single moment of unfiltered honesty. 

The world begins to shift colours in gentle pulses, until everything is painted in a palette of hues _ just _ askew from reality.

As the heavy pads of her fingertips rub circles over the cuts on his neck, Jon lets out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding. She’s doing _ something, _ that much is obvious, and it’s easier than he expects to let go of his own reservations. Each wave of pain breaks against his mind in a rhythm he could almost call hypnotic.

(Whatever Helen says, whatever they threaten each other with, there are strange unspoken rules to this arrangement between them. If they were going to kill each other, they would have done it earlier. This is — well, this is the afterglow, Jon supposes.)

“You’ll let me make you impossible one day, Archivist,” Helen says at long last, a decisive certainty to her tone, “but not now.”

Is it relief or disappointment Jon feels? The two are so similar that he can’t tell.

“Not going to kill me?”

Helen shrugs, her shoulder going up and up and up, then falling back into place.

“Perhaps you’ll let me do _ that _ instead. Or perhaps you’ll let me keep you alive. Whatever happens, you’ll never fail to entertain.”

She pats his cheek with her palm once, then twice. Who would have thought that having his own blood smeared against his skin could feel so _condescending?_

“I don’t plan on— on making you _ singular _ anytime soon, if that helps.”

Helen’s smile turns lascivious again, and Jon feels a flush rise to his cheeks.

“You could stand to do it a little more, if you like.”

“I— I’ll keep that in mind.”

**Author's Note:**

> god i just can't get enough of these two, okay?
> 
> you can find me on tumblr at [screechfoxes](https://screechfoxes.tumblr.com). hope you have a good day!


End file.
